The Dancer at the Gai-Moulin by Georges Simenon

minutes to
     drive to police headquarters. Officers on the night shift were playing cards and
     drinking beers fetched from a nearby café.
    The man walked in as if he owned the
     place, took off his bowler hat, and lit a large pipe, which suited his square
     face.
    â€˜Your papers?’
    Delvigne was nervous. There was
     something he didn’t like about the whole affair, but he knew not what.
    â€˜No, I’ve no papers on me at
     all!’
    â€˜What did you do with your
     suitcase when you left the Hôtel Moderne?’
    â€˜No idea!’
    The chief inspector gave him a sharp
     look, feeling anxious, since he had the impression that his interlocutor was now
     playing a game with him, like a child.
    â€˜Surname, first name, occupation,
     address …’
    â€˜Is that your office over
     there?’
    A door that opened on to a small office,
     empty and unlit.
    â€˜What of it?’
    â€˜Come inside.’
    And it was the broad-shouldered man who
     went in first, switched on the light and closed the door.
    â€˜Detective Chief Inspector
     Maigret, from the Police Judiciaire in Paris,’ he said, puffing at his pipe.
     ‘Come, my dear colleague, I think we’ve made good progress this evening.
     That’s a splendid pipe you have there!’

7. The Unusual
     Journey
    â€˜The journalists won’t be
     able to come in here, will they? Would you lock the door? Better if we can talk
     undisturbed.’
    Chief Inspector Delvigne looked at his
     colleague with the involuntary respect that is accorded, whether in the French
     provinces, or even more in Belgium, to anything Parisian. He was also embarrassed by
     his blunder, and started to apologize.
    â€˜Not at all,’ said Maigret
     firmly. ‘I absolutely wanted to be arrested! And I’ll go further: in a
     little while, you’re going to take me to prison, and I’ll stay there as
     long as need be. Your own inspectors must believe that I really have been
     arrested.’
    He couldn’t help it. He burst out
     laughing at the sight of his Belgian colleague’s face. Delvigne was looking
     askance at Maigret, wondering what attitude to adopt. It was clear that he was
     afraid of appearing ridiculous. And he was trying in vain to guess whether his
     companion was joking or not.
    Maigret’s laughter prompted his
     own.
    â€˜Come off it! You’re having
     me on! Put you in prison? Ha, ha, that’s a good one!’
    â€˜I promise you, I insist on
     it.’
    â€˜Ha, ha!’
    Delvigne resisted
     for a long time. And when he realized that his interlocutor was quite serious, he
     was devastated.
    They were sitting face to face now,
     looking at each other across a table laden with files. From time to time, Maigret
     stole an admiring glance at his colleague’s meerschaum pipe.
    â€˜You’ll soon understand
     why,’ he said. ‘My apologies for not putting you in the picture earlier,
     but you’ll see in a minute that it wasn’t possible. The crime was
     committed on Wednesday, wasn’t it? Right. Well on Monday, I was in my office,
     Quai des Orfèvres in Paris, when I was handed the business card of a certain
     Graphopoulos. As usual, before seeing him, I phoned the immigration office to find
     out who he was. They didn’t have anything on him. Graphopoulos had only just
     arrived in Paris. In my office, he gave me the impression of a man who was extremely
     anxious. He explained that he travelled a good deal, that he had reason to believe
     that his life was in danger, and he asked how much it would cost to be guarded day
     and night by a police inspector.
    â€˜We often get these requests, so I
     quoted him a rate. He insisted that he needed someone of senior rank, but on the
     other hand he replied evasively to my question about the kind of danger he was in,
     and who his potential enemies might be. He gave his address as the Grand Hôtel, and
     that